Live Here In The Moment
by ipreferwestside
Summary: ...so she's sure, or at least hopes, that he's alone. Because what she has planned for him? No one else should be home for that... A season 1 one shot. COMPLETE


_I might never be the hands you put your heart in  
_ _Or the arms that hold you any time you want them  
_ _But that don't mean that we can't live here in the moment  
_ _'Cause I can be the one you love from time to time  
_ _Perfect_ by One Direction

* * *

 **Live Here In The Moment  
Early season 1, pre-1x05, A Chill Goes Through Her Veins  
**

* * *

She takes a deep breath before knocking on his door. His mother and daughter aren't home; he'd made a flippant comment when leaving the precinct about how it might be a "dance in underwear while playing Guitar Hero kind of night." So she's sure, or at least hopes, that he's alone. Because what she has planned for him?

No one else should be home for that because they won't be quiet. No, not quiet at all.

Just enough time passes for her to consider walking away, pretend like she wasn't ever there, but the door opens before she can. Her eyes flick down his body before she can even blink.

Oh.

He wasn't joking about the "dance in underwear while playing Guitar Hero" thing; he has the game guitar in his hands, the body of the guitar over his front. She can see a flash of plaid boxer peeking out from behind it, but besides that, he isn't wearing anything else. No socks, no pants, no shirt.

 _Damn._

His chest is bare, and while he's not ripped (which she doesn't really like, anyway, it's too fake for her), he's definitely toned. Broad without being huge, a flat stomach that speaks to enough exercise to keep from getting soft but not hours and hours doing crunches. And that's absolutely perfect for her.

Someone who will keep up, but not overtake her. Because she likes to take control sometimes too, thank you very much.

"Beckett?" he asks, and she realizes that she's been staring when she sees the smirk adorning his mouth. "Is everything okay?"

She runs her tongue against the back of her teeth; her mouth is suddenly dry, and she wants nothing more than to push her way into his apartment and ravage him. "I-" Her voice cracks, and she curses herself. Words were never her specialty.

Fuck it.

"Are you alone?" she asks sharply, her words ringing in her ears. Okay, that came out more harshly than she intended, if his raised eyebrows are any indication.

He cocks his head to one side, as if studying her, and she stops herself from laughing. He looks like a dog when he does that. "Yeah, Mother and Alexis are both out for the night. Why? Did we catch a case?"

She reaches out and grabs the strap of the guitar, then, and uses it to tug him towards her. It wouldn't, really, and she knows the steps he takes in her direction are completely of his own volition, but she'll pretend she's in control here. Pretend she's taking the reins, so to speak.

Her mouth collides with his, open and sloppy, teeth clashing at first and making her head spin. But she's pushing him, then, her hands against his chest - _dear god his chest -_ and she fumbles for the door behind her, grunting when he pushes her against it, the door shutting with a loud slam.

If she wasn't kissing him, her head would have slammed against the door with the force, so hard she'd probably see stars.

No, she'll see stars anyway, but not from that. From him, his mouth probably, considering he's unfastening her coat and trailing his lips down her neck. He nips at her collarbone before moving to her breast, one nipple between his teeth and the other between his fingers, biting, licking, pinching, soothing. She hears a moan. It isn't until he chuckles against her navel that she realizes it came from her.

And then he's hooking his thumbs in the waistband of her leggings, the leggings that are probably soaked through because she hadn't bothered with underwear, and he's nudging his nose against her fabric-clad center before tugging the pants down and exposing her to him. She spreads her legs, and when he grips her ankle and draws her leg over his shoulder, opening her to him, she tangles her fingers through his hair and pulls him towards her, head back against the door, waiting, wishing-

* * *

She wakes with a start, sweat on her forehead and an ache between her legs.

 _Oh God._

She's had sex dreams before. She's had almost-sex dreams before. And they've all felt real to some point, but none like this. No, she could almost feel his lips, his tongue, his stubble. If only she hadn't woken…

It takes her a few seconds to realize her alarm is going off, and curses when she sees the time. She overslept.

 _Shit._

Usually she's able to quench the ache between her legs, coax her body to a quick orgasm to take the edge off before she gets ready for work. Sometimes she'll do it in the shower, if she's pressed for time. But not this morning; no, she barely even has time to shower, let alone get herself off, no matter that she can be fast when necessary.

So it's going to be one of _those_ days.

She downs her coffee while getting ready, and prays to whomever is listening that Castle brings her another one as he's been prone to doing. And that his usual childish mannerisms are toned down. Otherwise she might snap.

This would probably be a good day to interrogate suspects.

She's not that lucky, though; the day is frustratingly body drop-free, and as they'd closed a case late the night before, she mostly has paperwork to get her through the day. Castle still hangs out, though, bouncing from her to Ryan and Esposito, even to Karpowski and some of the other detectives to offer theory with their ongoing cases. And Kate is pissed. She doesn't know why, but she's absolutely livid.

He usually stays home when she does paperwork. Why is he here? Why is he _ever_ here?

Finally, after yelling at Esposito for accidentally stealing her pen, she shoves back from her desk and heads towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Castle calls after her from the opposite end of the bullpen.

"Somewhere," she fires back, not giving him any more. If she tells him, he'll just follow, and she can _not_ have that happen. Not that his mere presence is affecting her, not at all. It's not like she can't look at him and _not_ think about his mouth, about his fingers, about how many orgasms he could draw from her before finally breaking himself.

And she's _definitely_ not thinking about his "large-sized" claim the first time they'd met. About whether or not that's true.

No, definitely not.

Her thighs definitely don't rub together as she changes into her workout t-shirt and sweats, slips a headband on to keep her hair out of her face. She doesn't make a mental note to change her underwear when she's done, either.

Maybe she can punch her frustrations out.

So she wraps her hands, protecting her wrists and knuckles from the pounding she's about to instil on the punching bag, and takes her stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. And she goes to town with punches and elbows and knees and occasionally a kick or two, and before long she's sweating and panting from the exertion, although not the exertion she wants to be sweating and panting from.

 _Fuck._ Maybe she should have told him where she was going. Maybe then they'd be in the locker room now, taking her sexual frustrations out on him instead of this poor punching bag-

"Beckett?"

Her eyes close involuntarily at the sound of his voice. It's softer than she expected, really, than she's ever heard in their short partnership. Eh, acquaintanceship. It almost sounds like he cares.

He did follow her; maybe he does.

"What are you doing here?" she snaps, grabbing the hanging bag so it doesn't hit her.

Castle stands a little sheepishly, his hands tucked in his pockets and his shoulders rounded, and he looks so innocent, it makes her want to drag him into the locker room and fuck the innocent look right off his face.

"Well, you've kind of been on edge all day," he finally stammers with a shrug, "and I thought I'd come check on you, make sure everything's okay."

"It's fine," she responds, turning back to the bag, punching it again. She's surprised when the bag doesn't swing like it usually does, and she looks up to see him on the other side, holding it. "What are you doing?"

He smiles. "Helping."

"You wanna help?" she spits out before her brain can catch up, and she feels her face flush even more with embarrassment at what may come out of her mouth next. She considers for a brief moment, taking in his quirked eyebrow and that maddening smirk that she just wants to kiss right off his face. And then she's grabbing the front of his sweater and tugging, pulling him close and meeting him halfway for a kiss.

It's like the kiss from her dream, teeth and lips and tongue and it's hot, so hot, has the need low in her belly uncurling again, overtaking her entire body until she can't stand it anymore.

She needs to fuck him. _Now._

Her fingers grip at the hem of his sweater, sneaking underneath to trail at the skin directly above his waistband. He shudders with a sharp inhale, hips jerking towards her, hands landing on her waist.

"Beckett-"

"Shut up." She interrupts him with a squeeze to the front of his jeans, where she can feel him already, and even when she palms him, she can feel him growing under the denim.

Oh, those claims might not be exaggerated after all.

She just has to see for herself.

Evidence, naturally.

She grabs his belt and turns, leads him back to the locker room. It's late in the day, which is one reason she likes working out at this time; most plainclothes cops and detectives are getting ready to go home, and she rarely sees uniforms after lunch. So it's completely empty, and they're alone, thank God.

She finally turns again when they're in the back corner of the locker room, where nobody could see them even if they came in. They'll have to be quiet and careful, because someone could theoretically enter without them hearing, but she doesn't care.

She has other plans for their mouths.

Her hand is still on his belt and she quickly undoes it, then makes quick work of his button and zipper before slipping her hand underneath the waistband of his boxers. He's hard already, hot in her hand, and she gives it a few experimental strokes that have him groaning her name.

He circles her wrist with his fingers, stilling her hand over his cock, towering over her against the wall. "You don't want this to be over yet," he says, his voice low, his eyes boring into hers, a stormy midnight blue that she'd only dreamed of. "Because I have a feeling this isn't just about a quick handjob."

She shakes her head. God, she's soaked already, she can tell; he just needs to get her pants _off_ , already. "Fuck me, Castle," she almost whines.

He cocks an eyebrow. "That's it? That's what's got you all hot and bothered?" He pulls his sweater over his head, smiling at the way her eyes sweep across his torso. "Oh, Beckett. I get it." His hands sneak under her t-shirt and up, flirt with the bottom edge of her sports bra. "You've been pissy all day." He palms her breasts over her bra, letting out a low chuckle at the whimper that escapes from her. "Is this why?" One hand finds its way under her bra and the other drifts lower to flirt with her waistband. "You want me."

It's not a question.

She doesn't answer right away, because horny or not, she does _not_ want to give him the satisfaction of being right. Because he _is_ right, she does want him. She's wanted him from that very first case, when he'd sat in her interrogation room and claimed that she had gorgeous eyes.

But then his fingertips dust over her pants, over her center, where she's hot and needy and ready, so ready. She won't admit it, though. Not even when he drops to his knees in front of her and draws her pants over her hips, and-

 _Oh shit_.

It's just like her dream.

Only now she doesn't wake up. Instead her eyes flutter closed and she stifles a cry with her hand when he drags his tongue across her, swiping across her clit before scraping against it with his teeth. And before she knows it she's climbing, he's flicking his tongue against her, then drawing a leg over his shoulder and slipping a finger inside, then another, curling them into her.

"Please," she half-whispers, half-begs, and the vibrations from his chuckle send shockwaves through her and send her soaring. Her fingers find purchase in his hair and she grips, nails probably scraping his scalp, but she doesn't care because her back is arching and her head thuds against the wall and she sees stars.

Literally.

And then he's gone, but not for long; he stands back up, keeping her steady on wobbly knees that she's pretty sure might give out any moment. She leans up to kiss him, swiping her tongue across his lips, tasting herself, finding it to be a complete turn on. She wants to taste him too, wants to take him in her mouth and make him come, but he's pulling away before she can move, and nudging her towards a nearby bench.

"Kneel," he instructs, one hand on her ass and one hand around his cock, slowly stroking, his eyes glued to her. She reaches for his hips, but he bats her hands away and moves behind her.

"Wait," she protests in a brief moment of clarity; it's been awhile for her, so she knows she's good, but he does have a reputation, so… "Condom?"

"Oh. Yeah."

She hears fabric rustle, then the soft tear of a foil packet, and then he's behind her again, his hands on her hips. She feels him brush against her, and one of his hands leaves her hip briefly before she feels him inside, finally.

"Kate…"

"God."

"Fuck!"

Words are replaced by grunts and moans when he starts to move, his hands on her hips first before he crowds against her back and moves one of his hands to her breasts. He pinches her nipples as he pistons his hips, and every thrust in has her scooting forward on the bench until he's eventually straddling it. He lifts one leg to the bench, his added leverage letting him drive deeper.

She cries out when he moves his hand from her breasts to her clit, when he circles the nub with one finger before pinching it.

"Cas-"

She doesn't even get his name out when she shatters again, arching, her whole body stiffening as she comes. This time he follows, hips jerking as he spills into the condom, his arms wrapped around her stomach, almost every part of their bodies touching.

It takes them a few minutes for their breathing to return back to normal; it must be almost time to go home, she surmises, and she's the first to blink.

"Jesus, Castle," she finally manages to get out on a gasp, her body still humming from the orgasms he'd coaxed out of her. She's had strong climaxes before, but never like that. It felt good. It felt...right. Like she didn't want anyone else to make her come.

 _Oh, fuck._

The thought shakes her out of the after-sex trance she's in, and she grabs her pants from the floor - crotch soaked, as she thought - and heads towards her locker so she can change and go home.

"Where are you going?" He's still naked, his cock softening but still impressive, and no, he definitely wasn't exaggerating before.

She finds her spare jeans and underwear and tugs them on, puts her heels back on. She changes into her NYPD t-shirt and hoodie; she's going straight home, so it doesn't matter that she's not in her work clothes.

"Home," she states, matter-of-fact, no room for argument. After one glance at the wall and bench where they'd just made lo-fucked, she tells herself, where they'd fucked-she pushes past him and towards the door. "It was fun, see you tomorrow."

He grabs her arm on the way past him. "Kate, wait."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Don't," she pleads, hoping her desperation is evident in her eyes. "Don't make it into something it's not. Sometimes a fuck is a fuck. It's just the acquisition of an orgasm with help from another partner. That's it." She slings her duffel bag over her shoulder and walks past him. "Good night, Castle."

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks to Callie for the beta!_


End file.
